Sollocrie
by Gwen6
Summary: A world of magic becomes one with modern Earth, and our way of life is changed forever. In the midst of it, six men and women forge a place for themselves in a whirling landscape of violence.


**PROLOGUE**

Sollocrie's sunwas dropping in the east, and against the sultry orange sky, Cerelle could see the shadow of a dragon. It was soaring in a circle with lazy ease, and every so often she saw a blast of fire which was blinding even from these miles away. She knew what this dragon meant, and she was terrified. The outer garrisons had been overrun by the Enemy!

Cousin of the elven queen herself, Cerelle held the honourable position of Eastwarden, a position that left two cities, and seven garrisons, under her protection. _And now three of those garrisons are gone, obliterated… and I heard nothing until now._

"Ansallorré!"

The call went along the walls, and Cerelle waited, patient and calm. After what seemed like an age, but was in fact but a few seconds, a venerable elf moved to stand beside her. His face was pale as he gazed at the sky, and the dragon that still breathed fire without any trace of weariness. "They are coming?"

"It seems likely, Ansalloré."

The commander of the city garrison nodded, and turned to depart, "I will order the army to assemble. I doubt we will hold this city, but there are three other garrisons between here and Allaren. You should make your stand at Allaren."

Cerelle shook her head. "No, here is where we must stop them. You know this. Sollocrie is dying, this world has reached its ebb… there is but one hope for our people."

Anger brushed across her commander's face. "Lady, Sollocrie may be dying, but I do not accept that just because we _can_ usurp another world, we should. This world you speak of… we have no more right to it than the Enemy has to elven territory."

"No. You know that after the enchantments, there will no longer _be_ another world. Only Sollocrie."

Ansalloré sighed, looking to the east, where the shadow of the dragon plummeted beneath the horizon, either fallen in battle which was severely unlikely, or taking rest. "The Enemy will follow us to the new world. Why should we put others through the horror of their conquest, when we can refuse to activate the enchantment, leaving this evil contained."

Cerelle smirked, "The Enemy will follow us, and they will find a world with nations willing to unite behind us. You have seen the scrying mirrors as well as I. Metal machines that soar in the sky faster than any dragon, weapons that spew fire and leaden metal. With such weapons, we can _defeat the Enemy_."

Her commander looked away, and Cerelle knew why. In the three thousand years the elven race had fought against the Enemy, the war had gone from bad to worse. For the first thousand years, they had been so confident. That had changed, though. None had uttered those words for more than two thousand years, and the effect on those within earshot was profound.

An elven soldier, who had previously looked weary and horrified, now stood with his back erect, his eyes gleaming with previously discarded hope. Cerelle gave him a curt nod, and a smile, before turning back to Ansalloré, who now met her gaze. "I cannot let you do this, my Lady. You know what it will do to the nations of the metal machines. They will know _magic_ – their Gods will waken and hear their prayers. For all their intellect and resourcefulness, they are not ready for us, _and certainly not_ _for the Enemy._"

Cerelle frowned. "You have not the authority to stop me, Ansalloré."

The commander shook his head, "No. But I have the right. And the loyalty of my soldiers." He drew his blade, and pointed it directly towards Cerelle, who stepped back, one brow quirked.

"Treachery then, old friend?"

Ansalloré did not answer. Instead, he called to the soldier closest to them. "Take her Ladyship back to the Palace, Fistaa."

But the elf, gazing at the sunset, which was rapidly darkening into night, did not answer. Finally, he shook his head. "No, sir."

Cerelle nodded to herself. After she had declared that there was hope for the elves, none of these present, even those who were fanatically loyal to Ansalloré, would dare to stop her. Ansalloré turned his gaze to her and gave a bitter chuckle. His eyes were moist with tears. "Well, my Lady," he whispered, "you have taken the hearts of my warriors from me. Go… go and construct your magic. I will ride out against the Enemy, and die knowing that I did not see that day when the elven nation became parasites, living off other worlds."

Several in earshot flinched at that, and parted their ranks for their commander who, girt with gleaming silver mail, with his pale white hair and skin, seemed like a noble celestial being. More than a few followed him as he strode from the walls, into the courtyard below. Cerelle closed her eyes, before calling out, "Ansalloré!"

The commander turned, his movements were stiff, formal. "Yes, Lady?"

Cerelle sighed, "I love you. I pray the Seldarine guide you safe to Arvandor."

He nodded, grateful.

As Cerelle entered the circle of elven mages, in the palace gardens beneath the statue of Corellon, she gazed eastwards at the night sky. Already, the sky was blackening with harpies, with two large draconian shapes. The Enemy knew her plans, and had come to stop the curse. They would reach the city soon.

A vast symphony of brazen trumpets erupted throughout the city, and Cerelle watched as, in the east of the city, a flight of golden dragons sprang into the air. At the head of the column of six dragons, rode Ansalloré, hero of the elven people, with the five soldiers who had been willing to ride with him into the maw of death.

She watched until his light was a distant spec, and then she turned to her fellow wizards, silver tears staining her silver cheeks. Weakly, she whispered, "Kinsmen… let us go to Earth."


End file.
